


Couple of Monsters

by AppalachianApologies



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: "friends" is a strong word, Angst, Enemies to Friends, Even more disastrous than he usually is, Frank Castle Cares, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, I let the sexual tension marinate for a few hours before I tossed in some anger, I need sleep, Let's just go with enemies to enemies, Like really shitty angst but angst none the less, There's a bit of sexual tension there, and a dash of salt, back to Enemies, i dunno man, like an airconditioning fan, not like being a fan of like a show or anything, there is a lot of hate directed toward a fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies
Summary: Matt and Frank get caught up in yet another roof top fight, but this time, Matt's hurt.Frank might not be the best person, but he's not going to leave a bleeding devil out on a roof by himself.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	Couple of Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, all you need to know is that I'm not good at writing characters w o w this was disastrous, but you know what? I gotta start somewhere, and apparently this is it.

The night was seemingly never ending.

Drug rings, mob hits, even the average mugging seemed to multiply by hundreds tonight.

Matt was running back and forth between his city, not leaving himself a second to breathe. His knuckles were bleeding through the gloves, and after a while the suit can only do so much to take the brunt of the damage. 

While Matt’s attempting to comfort a would be mugging victim, he hears the sharp sound of a silenced rifle. His head jerks to the side, determined to find the rooftop that Frank’s inevitably causing trouble on. 

After assuring that the victim isn’t hurt, Matt scurries up the side of a building, listening to the echoes of a military-grade sniper rifle. It bounces off alleyways, getting caught in old garbage. Each piece of metal the sound hits gives Matt a better clue to where Frank is.

A roll off of a roof makes Matt wince, broken ribs are a bitch.

But he deals with the pinching in his torso, and steadily makes his way to Frank’s position. Before long, he can smell the stench of gunpowder and convenience store deodorant, scent speckled with dried blood. 

Matt’s a few paces behind him when Frank’s heart rate changes, signifying Frank’s knowledge of him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Red?” Frank grumbles out, before pulling the trigger again.

The sound gives a perfect silhouette of Frank and his gun, and Matt quickly kicks the rifle out of his hands, getting a growl in return.

Frank pulls a right hook that Matt saw coming from a mile away, easily ducking out of the way. Matt jerks Frank’s shoulder to the left and then down, kicking in the back of his knees at the same time, causing the marine to fall to his knees.

When Matt goes to subdue him further, Frank twists around, bringing Matt to the gritty roof as well. Both men grunt from the force, and Matt tries to squirm out from under Frank’s grasp. 

Matt’s boot hits the other man’s nose, causing a sickly  _ crunch _ to echo around them. 

The pain only empowers Frank though, and a split second later he’s dragging Matt by the ankle, body greeting Frank’s fists.

Matt gets a few good punches in, feeling warm blood flow from Frank’s nose. It splashes across the ground and his gloves. 

But just as Matt has fast and nimble movements, Frank has strength, and a single good punch above Matt’s ear sends him stunned against the ground for a second.

The second is all Frank needs. 

He pins Matt down, knee pressed into his navel, and holds his arms down with his own.

“Fuckin’ up my mark, Red?”

Ever the Catholic, Matt replies, “They don’t deserve to die, Frank.”

A scoff shreds through the air. “My family didn’t deserve to fucking die either, but that’s life, kid.”

Matt tries to swing up at Frank’s elbow, and twists to the side in one fluid movement, but Frank isn’t deterred for a second. He presses down harder with his knee, and Matt can’t help but let a wince escape. Matt can hear his ribs shift around, and that alone is almost worse than the pain.

Almost.

Matt growls at him, and kicks up his knees while headbutting Frank, which only ends up angering the beast further. 

Matt kicks again, and Frank retaliates with bringing his knee up, up, up, and then _ down _ onto Matt’s battered torso.

His eyes fly open, a stupid reflex for a blind man. Matt’s body tries to curl up on itself, but Frank’s arms prevent it from doing so. 

Head pitching to the side, Matt’s chest catches on fire when he coughs. 

“The fuck, Red?” Frank mutters, and it takes Matt’s brain a second to catch up. 

The slippery copper taste in his mouth answers any questions he could’ve had before.

Frank hastily takes his knee off of Matt’s chest, but keeps his arms lightly pinned. Matt grins at his mistake, and twists out of his grasp. 

He doesn’t even make it halfway to standing before he splutters dark red across the roof.

Unlike the rest of the entire fight, Frank’s heart rate speeds up, but Matt doesn’t have time to analyze that fact.

“Jesus Red, what the fuck happened?” Frank takes a step forward, and Matt gives a red toothed grin that would put the actual devil to shame.

It’s short lived though, a moment later Matt falls back to the ground, the rest of the night finally catching up with him.

Frank’s heartbeat speeds up again, but that can’t be right. Why would he show concern? He kneels next to Matt, and he has to stop himself from spitting blood on his face.

God, his side  _ hurts _ .

**

Matt has faint memories, or at least he thinks he has faint memories of being carried, of smelling gunpowder, of tasting blood, but he’s not really sure.

The first thing he’s actually sure of is how the cot he’s lying on must surely be made of nails. Squirming does nothing to ease the itch.

“Easy, Red,”

Matt’s entire body goes still, and his lungs follow. “Frank?” Matt’s throat feels like shit, it’s a miracle that he even got out the word. Someone else is here too, farther back in the room. They smell male, but Matt can’t figure out anything else in his condition.

“The fuck was that, Red? Huh? Going out picking fights with your spleen ripped to shreds?”

Wait, what?

“Where am I?” Wherever he is, it smells like blood and gunpowder and sweat. It smells like Frank.

Ignoring the question the Marine continues, “What, do you get off on dying on rooftops? What kind’a blind guy goes fucking galivanting across the city?”

Fuck.

Matt brings his hands up to his forehead, and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t feel the familiar texture of his cowl.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, kid.” Frank says, before he walks out the door, far enough that Matt can’t easily focus on his heart.

The other man in the room finally speaks up when Frank is gone.

“Gave us quite a scare there,”

“Where am I?”

Luckily, this man chooses to answer his question. “One of Frank’s places. How’re you feeling?”

He stands up, and Matt hears plastic and metal. A slight limp, uneven footing.

Matt’s face scrunches up. “Vet?”

The man chuckles. “That obvious, huh?” The footsteps stop when they reach Matt’s side.

There’s a familiar heat across his face.

“You’re really blind?” 

Matt swats the penlight away from his eyes, and turns to the side. He feels like shit, and a random stranger questioning his blindness certainly doesn’t help. Matt makes a move to sit up, but the man delicately pushes him back down.

“You’re pretty hurt man, I wouldn’t try to get up too soon,” He adds an extra pat on his shoulder for good measure.

Matt ignores him and tries to sit up again. “Who are you?”

With less kindness than before, the man pushes him back down. “They guy who just stitched up your insides.” Matt does his best to glare, but it loses its effect when his eyes end up focusing above the other man’s brow. “I’m Curtis. Don’t suppose I get to know your name?”

Matt’s silence is enough of an answer.

“Okay then. Listen, I don’t know what the hell you got into, but I’m still not sure you’re in the clear, so you need to just stay down, got it?”

Taking a deep breath and holding it, Matt focuses on his insides, and doesn’t feel anything too off. “I’m fine.”

Curtis gives a disbelieving laugh, “I’m sure you are, man.” He pauses, but eventually continues with a sigh. “Just get some rest. I already have to deal with one injured idiot, I really don’t want to have to deal with two.”

Frank is injured?

It doesn’t matter if he’s injured.

Good for him, if he’s injured.

Curtis might not even be talking about Frank, he probably has other friends.

Why does Matt even care?

Matt turns on his side and wraps his arm around his naked side, attempting to end this god awful conversation with a random man who knows his face. He knows he’s succeeded when he hears Curtis’ off beat footsteps.

Within a few minutes, his body betrays him and Matt’s unconscious again.

**

Matt wakes with a gasp, a pile of dead Foggys fading from his mind. 

While his breathing slows, he listens to the room around him. He’s in the same place as before, but Curtis is gone, replaced by Frank’s heavy heartbeat. He hasn’t noticed that Matt’s awake yet.

An obnoxious portable box fan attacks all of Matt’s senses, and if he was just a bit more unstable Matt’s sure that he’d tear it to pieces.

“Why am I here?” Matt asks Frank, even though he’s directing it at the ceiling.

His reply is a salty, “Morning, sunshine.”

“Fuck off, Frank. Why am I here? Why am I even alive?”

“Why? You’d rather be dead?”

Silence fills the air.

“Just because I want you out of my way doesn’t mean I want you as a fucking corpse.”

Matt snorts. “Could’ve fooled me,”

Frank makes a noncommittal noise that Matt doesn’t know how to decipher. Maybe he could if that fucking fan wasn’t drilling a hole in his head.

The whir of the blades accompanies Matt’s question, “Is Curtis one of your friends or something?”

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“‘Or something?’”

“Something about you, Frank, that tells me you aren’t known for your friendship.”

Frank snorts. “Curtis’ a stubborn son of a bitch, wouldn’t leave me alone if I punched him in the face.” The smirk at the end tells Matt that he definitely punched Curtis in the face. “Besides, you’re one to talk, Red,”

“You don’t think I have any friends?”

“Hell no.”

Matt lets the statement hang in the air, pushed around by  _ that fucking fan. _

A minute later there’s a few clicks and grunts from metal, and Frank stands up. Kevlar vest securely fastened, he announces, “Don’t die while I’m gone,” but before he can take a single step, Matt’s already arguing.

“Don’t do this, Frank,” He says with a wince.

Frank huffs, “Not your choice, Red.”

“People deserve second chances-”

“You don’t know the shitheads that I’m after.”

Matt stays stern, “I know that they don’t deserve to be shot in cold blood.”

“Do you, now?” Frank muses sarcastically, and heads out the door.

Determined to save a life tonight, Matt hauls himself off the cot to stop Frank. He’s greeted with the ground to his nose.

And now that goddamn fan on the floor is blowing air right into his face.

Matt lets out a pitiful groan that Stick would’ve hit him for.

“Oh for fucks sake, Red,” Frank mutters, turning back around. “Just stay on the damn bed, yeah?”

“‘M not letting you kill anyone tonight, Frank.” Matt announces, slapping a helping hand away.

“You’re not exactly in a position to stop me.”

In an embarrassment of tangled sheets and sweat, Matt holds up his fists. Frank laughs at him.

But Jack’s voice rings in his head, and Matt forces his legs underneath him, and stands up. He can hear Frank’s heart do a strange flip, but he can’t exactly decipher it because that  _ goddamn fucking shitty ass fan _ keeps filtering out sounds.

“Sit the fuck back down, Red.”

“I can’t let you kill, Frank.”

“You just had surgery, asshole.”

Matt smirks and takes a step forward.

Before falling on his ass in front of the serial killer Frank Castle.

Not one of his finest moments, he’ll admit that.

And then to his horror, Frank hauls him up from his armpits, makes a comment about his weight, and then gracefully dumps him back on the bed.

“Stay the fuck down, or I’ll drug you.” He mutters before leaving, slamming the door behind him.

Matt tries to ignore the empty he feels inside knowing the only thing keeping him company is Frank’s obnoxious box fan, blowing the scent of gunpowder to Matt’s nose.

Keeping his ears peeled, Matt hears bullets hitting flesh not far from Frank’s… place? It’s two rooms, Matt can tell that much, but it doesn’t feel like a place someone lives in. Salty MREs plague the air next to an old hotplate, and there’s a bin next to it with toiletries and the stink of cheap detergent. From what Matt can tell, the cot and a round table are the only real surfaces in the room. There’s also a folding chair, but instead of joining the table, it’s next to that fucking fan.

Three more bullets cut through the fan’s cacophony, and then silence. 

A few minutes later Frank’s heavy boots and equally heavy heartbeat come through the door. Matt doesn’t wait a single second before pouncing.

“How many did you kill?”

Matt’s fists itch when Frank laughs. “That the only thing in your mind, huh pretty boy? “

“People don’t deserve to die, Frank!” Matt growls, leaning against the wall to sit up on the cot.

Frank deposits his guns and shrugs of his Kevlar vest. “Is that right?” He asks sarcastically.

“How many people did you kill, Frank?”

Frank brings a fist down on the table, adrenaline spiking. “You wanna know how many? How many people that are fucking dead ‘cause of me?” He stalks up to the cot, and gets close to Matt’s face, “How many families I tore apart, huh? How many sons I took from mothers, how many brothers I took from sisters? How many  _ fathers I took from children? _ ”

Fire ignites inside of Matt. His fist flies up, and he’s grimly satisfied when it connects with Frank’s cheek. 

With a sick grin, Frank grabs hold of his wrist and throws it back towards Matt’s body. 

Matt only takes it as an invitation to continue, and tries to catch Frank’s nose with his other fist. But God, his torso still burns, and Frank’s still high on adrenaline from  _ killing _ , so it’s not a fair fight.

That’s Matt’s specialty though. He doesn’t think he’s ever fought fair, just like his dad.

A jab to his neck, and Frank’s momentarily stunned, just enough for Matt to take the advantage. One, two, three punches to the older man’s face, and copper blends into the taste of oxygen and carbon dioxide.

A devil’s grin joins the party, but is instantly taken away when a strong fist finds his stomach. 

For a second, all of Matt’s senses leave, and when they’re back, he’s on the floor. 

Matt groans and picks himself up, but Frank pushes him back down with his shoe. 

He crouches down next to the devil, picks up his head and whispers in his ear, “I killed six people tonight, Red. And I don’t feel no regret.” Frank then drops his head unceremoniously on the floor.

When Matt gets his bearings back, his only company is the fan.

_ That goddam fucking fan. _ It’s not even that warm in here. There’s no reason to have that fan on.

Frank’s kevlar vest and handguns are still on the old table, but Matt doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

Matt stays on the floor for what’s probably hours until he remembers he promised Foggy and Karen that he’d come to a meeting.

Matt gropes around the cot and table until he finds his cowl and his suit, and slips it on, cursing when it gets caught on bloody pieces of his body.

He needs a shower.

The outside of Frank’s place leads to a hallway, and he picks the right direction to the exit. If anyone sees him, no one comments about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen walking through a cheap apartment complex.

When he gets out into the air, Matt curses.

It’s already fucking day.

He’s definitely missed this morning’s meeting, assuming it is still  _ this  _ morning, maybe days have passed. It was impossible to tell what time it was in Frank’s… Apartment? It’s hard to believe that a man like Frank would have an apartment, even as shitty as it was.

Once Matt’s shuffled his way up a fire escape, ignoring the murmurs of a few onlookers, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his pain.

Matt isn’t too far from his own place, he can smell his favorite Thai food from where he’s perched.

Blocking out most of the outside world, Matt finally gets to his own roof, and shimmies down into his apartment.

_ Foggy, Foggy, Foggy. _

Ah, Shit.

He answers his phone, and his old friend’s voice screams into his ear, “Matt? For fucks sake! Are you alive? Where the fuck are you?”

“‘M fine, Foggy.”

“I’m coming over.” He announces, and Matt knows he’s not bluffing.

“Wai- what? No no, I’m okay. I’ll be there soon. Don’t leave Karen alone,” He says back, beginning to strip off what’s left of his suit.

Matt can hear a door closing on Foggy’s end when he says, “I sent Karen home,”

“Why?”

“I canceled the appointment with Miss Soto, and we didn’t have anything else to do, plus I was like four, maybe five, seconds away from going to your apartment anyway, and I figured Karen wouldn’t really appreciate me just randomly going out, but who knows? You know, maybe she’s used to this,” Foggy continues rambling, and Matt curses himself for making Foggy anxious. 

The last time Foggy rambled this much was when Matt caught the flu sophomore year.

“Foggy,” Matt finally interrupts, “I’m fine, I can come into the office soon-”

“Oh no you don’t. ‘Fine’ is Matt speak for ‘I’m dying’.”

“I’m not dying.” Matt counters, sounding like a child.

“I’ll decide that for myself, okay? Just stay put, I’m in a cab right now.”

“I’m not dying, Foggy,” Matt reiterates, relieved to get out his bloody suit.

“Lalalala, I’m not listening,”

“Foggy,”

“Lalalala, you better be decent when I get there, by the way.”

“I’m going to hang up now, Foggy. I already told you, I’m fine.” Matt mutters, collapsing onto his couch.

Matt feels a bit guilty for leaving Foggy with a dial tone, but he wants to get at least a bit of the blood off of himself before Foggy sees him.

That’s what he tells himself anyway, but Matt can’t seem to muster up the strength to get off the couch to the sink. So that’s how Foggy ends up finding him, half naked on the couch, blood seeping through stitches.

With a speedy heart, Foggy gently places bandages over Matt’s torso, asking every other second if he’s being too hard or if it hurts.

Matt eventually swats his hand away, “Foggy I told you, I’ll be fine.”

Matt swears he can hear Foggy’s eye roll. “Claire didn’t call me. We have an agreement you know? She calls me when anything happens.”

“Wait, you do?” Matt says with a look, only a little betrayed.

“Yeah, we decided that it has mutual benefit. Like a relationship between the tiny birds and the crocodiles. I learned about that in freshman biology.”

Matt snorts, “Who’s the crocodile in this scenario?”

Foggy laughs back at him. “But seriously, why didn’t she call me?”

With a wince that doesn’t have to do anything with his wound Matt mutters, “Someone else patched me up-”

“Who?”

“Uh,”

“Matt. Who patched you up?”

“A friend?”

“Matt.”

Quietly Matt answers, “Frank-”

“Frank as in Frank Castle?! What the fuck, Matt! What were you thinking? The fucking serial killer?”

Matt nods slowly, “Um. Yeah. That’s, that’s the one.”

“What. The. Fuck.”

“I didn’t ask for him to save me!”

Foggy tosses his arms up. “Did he do this?” He asks, motioning to the wound.

With a shake of his head Matt replies, “No, it happened earlier in the night.” Matt doesn’t mention that Frank aggravated his internal injuries, but that’s only because he senses Foggy’s about a minute away from having an aneurysm.

“So what? You’re just,  _ simpatico  _ with Frank Castle, a serial killer?”

Matt shrugs. “I mean, he wasn’t happy about it either.”

Foggy stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “Oh my God. I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you right now.”

“Foggy-” Matt starts.

“Nope!” He replies, pushing Matt down on the couch. “I am not drunk enough to have this conversation.

“Fo-”

“N-o. No. You’re staying on that couch, and you’re gonna heal up, and then when I get appropriately drunk enough, you’re going to tell me why the hell Frank Castle took care of you.”

Matt grins and says, “You don’t have to say his name like that,”

“Like what?”

“You don’t have to say his full name, you can just say Frank.” Matt says, grin even wider.

He hears his fridge open and close. “I’m not drunk enough to even talk about his name. Wait until I’m stumbling around. Mmkay? Mmkay.” He answers himself.

“Hey Fog?”

Foggy pops off the top of his beer and asks, “Yeah?” Between sips.

“Can you turn on the air conditioning?”

**Author's Note:**

> I really debated on whether or not to post this, because I'm honestly not a fan of how it came out (it just feels like a "meh" of a fic), but then I said "fuck it" and posted it anyway cuz I figured it'd get more love here than in my google docs haha.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and it would mean a lot if you let me know if you like'd it!  
> Also let me know if you share my hatred for floor fans that just make so. much. noise.
> 
> <3


End file.
